


A Beautiful Lie

by Jazzy_Jared



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, Dark!John but he wants to be good, Domestic Violence, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Happy Ending, I write the craziest things, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazzy_Jared/pseuds/Jazzy_Jared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Domestic violence is serious, and Sherlock knows this all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Severed Heads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.  
> I had this idea, and it would not go away until I wrote it, so here it is.  
> YES, this is an abusive relationship between John and Sherlock. "Why would you wanna write that?" you may ask, and I'm not sure :P I write a lot of fluffy, happy stuff, and I thought for once I'd do something a little darker. Don't worry, I'm not going to get too graphic, but if abuse and child abuse bother you, do not read this for your sake. <3  
> That's pretty much it, ummmm well here it is :)

“It isn't very nice to admit, but domestic violence has its uses. So raw and unleashed, it tears away the veil of civilization that comes between us as much as it makes life possible. A poor substitute for the sort of passion we like to extol perhaps, but real love shares more in common with hatred and rage than it does with geniality or politeness.” ― Lionel Shriver, _We Need to Talk About Kevin_

+++

The first time John hits Sherlock, he’s piss drunk.

           They’d had an argument – once again – over Sherlock’s severed head in the fridge. John had specifically told him to take it out and dispose of it the day before. Sherlock said he was done with the damn experiment already, so there was no need for the head to still be here. Sherlock – as always – is inflexible and hard-headed, so the head was left undisturbed next to John’s favorite Strawberry jam; this is where John found it the following evening, making his temper flare.

            “Dammit, Sherlock,” he exclaimed at the detective, who had thrown himself quite dramatically onto the sofa an hour before. “Why can’t you just for _once_ listen to me and throw this god forsaken head _out_?” Sherlock was busy (he’s in the middle of a case for crying out loud), so John shouldn't expect him to leave his Mind Palace to indulge in this petty domestic. Things have been stressful – for John especially –, so Sherlock stays quiet, letting the army veteran blow off his steam.

            John might as well have been talking to a brick wall, with the lack of response he was getting. He gritted his teeth, and stalked over to the couch, where Sherlock laid in his prayer position. “Sherlock,” he says with repressed anger. Still no response. “Sherlock,” He spoke a bit louder, but still, his calls seem to fall on deaf ears. “Fine! I’m going out; I need some air.” He grabs his coat and keys and stomps his way down the seventeen steps to the front door, making sure to slam it for emphasis.

            Sherlock finally opens his eyes once he’s for sure John was gone. He’d been trying to avoid John like the plague this past week due to the short temper he’s had. They’ve both been under a lot of stress with Sherlock trying to figure out this difficult case (triple homicide, locked room, little to no evidence left behind), and John has been taking double shift at his surgery to try to bring in some extra money. Sherlock knows he should be a little more considerate of his husband’s feelings and stress, but he’s always had a hard time relating to others, even John. They've been together a while, but he still is learning new things every day.

            He waltzes his way over to the fridge, and – gently – pulls the head out of the fridge. He might as well do John this _one_ favor, since it’s unlikely he’ll do much else. He finds a garbage bag from under the sink and proceeds to put the head inside. He places it back into the fridge – can’t have it decomposing before he takes it back to Molly tomorrow to store at Bart’s – and decides to look over some fabric from the case that may or may not contain the murderers DNA. He’s not for certain how long he sat at his microscope before he heard John’s uneven tread up the steps. He sighed loudly; of course he went and got himself drunk.

            If there was one thing that bothered Sherlock more than Anderson’s face, it was John’s drinking habit. Even after seeing what his sister went through with alcohol, he continues to drink heavily. It seems more often now due to Sherlock’s infuriating behavior during this case – which Sherlock persistently admits is difficult, even if it hurts his ego to admit it.

            As John threw open the door to the flat, Sherlock was hit with the putrid and nauseating smell of alcohol, smoke, and more alcohol.

            How lovely.

            “Oh, wonderful,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “You’re back a bit early, and you brought the whole bar back with you, according to my _nose_.” As Sherlock looked up at him, he noticed something very different about John.

            Normally, after a night of drinking, he would come back looking defeated, eyes clouded over, and drained; his anger normally fading after being out a while, but not tonight. Sherlock could clearly see John’s anger was just as bad, if not worse than before he left. He barely had enough time to deduce this before John was charging at him, eyes blazing with a fury normally aimed at the criminal masterminds they chased. Once he was right in front of Sherlock, he pinned the detective to his seat in the kitchen with just a scowl. Sherlock gulped audibly, but kept his composure.

            “Get up,” John said through clenched teeth. When Sherlock made no move to stand, – which was a mistake on his part – John snatched up the front of his dressing gown and dragged him to his feet himself. Sherlock thought he was going to get a good talking to, but instead was pushed – more like slammed – into the wall. “I told you to get up!” John’s breath smelled strongly of alcohol, and Sherlock had to fight the urge to push him off of himself. For a few seconds – or minutes, Sherlock really couldn't focus on counting anyway – they stood in that position. John glared, and Sherlock stared at him with a blank face.

 _For such a small, tiny man, he has such brute strength_ , Sherlock thought to himself; Sherlock let a smirk pass his façade. Even in a situation like this, he somehow found the humor in it.

           That had been his second mistake.

           There was no warning, nothing to deduce, nothing to see; it just simply happened before either of them could comprehend it _was_ happening.

           A fist collided with Sherlock’s face, setting fire to his right jaw and cheek bone. He could swear he saw stars, and before he knew it, the hands gripping his dressing gown were removed, and John’s presence vanished away from him. He wanted to sit down for a moment (at least, that’s what he told himself. He knew the force of the blow knocked him off balance, and surprised him a bit), so he slumped to the ground in the kitchen. He simply stared at nothing, holding onto his hurt jaw. He took a quick trip to his Mind Palace, and went into John’s house (yes, John has a whole house dedicated to him). He’s not sure what he’s looking for, really; he just knows he wants an explanation for John’s behavior tonight.

          He goes into the library on the first floor, and begins looking through some books. Each book holds a different topic about John: his favorite tea, favorite books, movies, and the like. Sherlock walked through the maze of books, knowing exactly what he was looking for. As he walked, he ran his hand along the spines of the books, trying to distract himself from the ache he felt in his chest. _Weird_ , he thought; _have to file that to look over later._

           Once he spotted the book he was looking for, he grabbed it and flipped through it hastily, needing an answer now. It read:

 **** **_John’s Family_ **

_ Michael Watson (John’s Father) _ _: Deceased(2012). John nor I attended funeral. John said it wasn't “worth his time”._

  * _Car mechanic_
  * _Alcoholic_
  * _Multiple affairs (only John was aware of this. Never told his mother)_
  * _According to John, it's who he get his hair color from_
  * _Abusive to his family (started when John was 14, Harry was –_



            _No,_ Sherlock thought, _need something else entirely._ He placed the book back in its place, and ran out the library. He’s looking for the cause of tonight, and he knows exactly where to find it. He turns and finds himself in the garden of his childhood home. He used to come out here when Mycroft was being, well, Mycroft or his mummy was angry at him for ruining the kitchen once more with his experiments. He would sometimes even catch Bees, until he was caught one time and got into trouble by Mycroft for getting himself “into ridiculous situations, as always”.

           He sat down by his favorite flowers – Hibiscus – and let his mind wander. He knew the problem; it was him. He was the problem, and he should have thrown the damn head out. He should have noticed the signs long before John did anything at all. He should have seen it, but was being too stubborn to recognize it for what it really was: he was hit, and it was his fault. It always is, isn't it? Throughout his whole life, he has always been the troublemaker, the freak, and the problem child. He realized as he got older that he just can’t help it. He lived most of his life keeping others at a far distance, knowing they would never understand him.

           Then John Watson showed up.

           He wooed Sherlock over the years, and showed him that he was one of the few apart from Mycroft who understood his genius, the way he works, and who never judged him for it. And he was freaking hot, so of course Sherlock had to take him to dinner one night and ask for his hand in marriage. Suddenly, they were married, and Sherlock was head-over-heels in love with John Watson. He could write a book just on the man’s hair alone. He knew this was a match made in heaven, and he didn’t even believe in heaven! He was finally really happy for once.

           Then tonight happened; he had failed John immensely. John was never violent or abusive in any way to Sherlock in the past, except for tonight. He should have just thrown the damned severed head in the trash.

           His eyes began to feel hot and wet, and he realized he was crying.

           Brilliant.

           He wiped his eyes quickly, and finally opened his eyes. When they opened, there sitting in front of him was John. He looked utterly heartbroken. His hair was wet, so he was freshly out the shower, which explained the scent of soap and toothpaste. He sat there in front of Sherlock, shoulders hunched over, and eyes rimmed with red, almost as if someone drew the red in with marker. Sherlock stayed silent and stared at John (not directly in the eyes, but in that general area).

           “Sherlock,” John whispered. Even though it was a whisper, Sherlock jumped at the sudden hoarse voice. He saw him take a shaky breath, and proceed. “I- I don’t know what came o-over me, I just… please. I’m sorry, God, Sherlock. I’m sorry. How could I be so reckless, so stupid, so –” He cut himself off with a sob that seemed to come from deep within his very being.

           Sherlock wanted to just grab this man, and hug him until he stopped crying just so they could move past this huge mess. So, that’s exactly what he did.

           He held John so tight, he thought he was hurting him, but John did nothing but wail into Sherlock’s shoulder, hiccuping and shaking with every strained breath he tried to take. Why was John crying? Shouldn't Sherlock be the one in tears? He was the one who was hit, so shouldn't he be sobbing right now?

 _No,_ he thought, _I put this on myself. I have no right to be sad about this because I did this to myself. Being hit, and having to watch John cry is my punishment. No more severed heads in the fridge from now on it seems._ He knew he wasn't being rational, but he was past that right now. This was a one-time thing; we all get mad, and John just lost all his patience.

           “I forgive you,” Sherlock said softly, not sure John could hear him over his own sobs, but it was clarified when John shook his head frantically, but before he could disagree verbally, Sherlock spoke again. “No, John, don’t be daft. I forgive you. I don’t care, we all make mistakes, and I forgive you for yours. So, once again, _I forgive you_.” He made sure his words conveyed some finality, so John could understand that this wasn't up for discussion.

           After John’s sobs slowed, they both made their way to their bedroom, and lay down completely knackered. John held onto Sherlock tightly, peppering the right side of his jaw with gentle, barely there kisses. “I’m sorry” was chanted continuously from John, almost rhythmic like a sad melody. Sherlock decided to shut him up by latching his mouth to John’s, making sure to devour him, so he couldn't say another word.

           The make-up sex was great, and knocked them both out for the rest of the night, well into the morning. Sherlock would wake up the next morning (jaw sore as shit) not knowing that last night was simply the start of so much more that would transpire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!!!!


	2. Black Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, Karl, not now. Take it easy. It’s our happy day.”  
> ― Steen Langstrup, The Informer

_ The Next Day _

__

Sherlock played the violin for hours, only stopping the three hours of continuous playing to make a cup of tea. John had already got ready and went to work by the time Sherlock woke up, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. He tried to avoid the mirror when he went to take a shower, but he couldn’t for long. If he wanted to look presentable to Mrs. Hudson – or really anyone who just loves to make surprise visits to the flat without prior notice – he would have to clean up his face best he could. After brushing his teeth, – which hurt his jaw more than he’d ever admit – he began to assess the damage.

There was an alarming bluish-purple bruise under his right eye, although it could pass as simply not having got enough sleep. Sure, he could use that excuse, but it wouldn’t explain the other bruise that has seized his jaw. He felt a bit ugly, but he quickly pushed that thought aside; Criminals have given him marks far worse than this measly bruise on his face.

 _None of them were from your husband,_ the logical part of his brain pointed out. He shook his head, physically trying to clear his mind of the thought and proceeded to pull out his make-up collection. Being the only Consulting Detective in the world means that when you need to go undercover or have a disguise, make-up is your best friend. He’s had a lot saved from over the years: blush, mascara, eyeliner, and the like. He keeps it all in a simple black make-up chest with a _Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes_ sticker displayed haphazardly on the side.

As it opens, it divides into three tiers. The bottom tier holds all eye related things, the middle contains brushes and the top has different blushes, powders, and concealers. He grabbed some concealer and a brush and began to apply it generously. After applying it, he went ahead and reached for some powder to make sure he really covered it well enough.

When satisfied, he spent much of the rest of his time tweaking with different experiments, and reorganizing his sock index (John had the _audacity_ to “fix” it himself a few days earlier, leaving Sherlock sulking for hours). Before he knew it, it was well around 5:30pm. John would be home pretty soon, so Sherlock decided to put some water in the kettle for him.

As he was filling it up, his phone rang, playing the theme song from “Cops”.

 _Lestrade; probably has something that’s absurdly dull,_ he thought.

 He snatched it out of his dressing gown pocket, and answered, “Make it quick.” He was already irritated with Lestrade’s incompetence to solve it himself. How’d he even get his damn job? Was he hired by circus monkeys? _Probably so, seeing as the entirety of his divisions act as though they were raised in barns,_ he thought sourly.

“Yeah, hey there to you too. Listen,” Greg said, sounding weary. “We’ve got something that’s got us pretty stumped—”

“What doesn’t?” Sherlock rudely interrupted. After a beat, he added a half-hearted, “Sorry, as you were saying.”

“Anyway,” He could almost hear Lestrade’s eyes rolling. “Can you come by and give us some help?”

Sherlock gave himself a once over in the mirror, satisfied with his work and said, “Sure. Give me fifteen minutes.” While hanging up, he ran to his room to get dressed; finally, something to keep him engaged regardless of how elementary it could be.

 

+++++

 

“God, Lestrade,” Sherlock cried out, exasperated by the lack of intelligence at the crime scene, “are you this ignorant just to be a nuisance to my very _existence_? It’s so **obvious** ; I mean look at his ring, for God’s sake –!” He couldn’t lie and say he doesn’t enjoy pestering the goldfish (as Mycroft so eloquently puts it) like Lestrade at the crime scenes. His rant was interrupted by the blaring ring of his phone. “Hello?” He snapped into the receiver. Whoever this was, they called at a very bad time; Sherlock was in a very dark mood.

Not only is the case easy, but it’s incredibly _boring._ Husband found dead in his flat, obviously it was the wife; she’d just found out about his frequent affairs.Lestrade should know better than to request he take time out of his day and come down here for something as tedious as an adulterer who was bad at being sneaky about his affairs.

“Where are you? Are you on a case?” It was John.

“I wouldn’t call something as _stupid_ as this a _case,_ ” He spat while shooting Lestrade a deathly glare. Lestrade simply ignored him, not playing into his childish behavior. “But yes, it’s a ‘case’ nonetheless. I’ll be home soon, talk to you then.” He went to hang up, but John stopped him.

“Sherlock, wait, why didn’t you tell me there was a case? I could have left work and gone with you –”

“No John, this was barely worth either of our time. Besides you miss enough work for – goddammit, Anderson! Put the foot down! I’m going to take that home – yes, it’s for an experiment, you good-for-nothing –”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John warned. “ _Watch it_.”He didn’t raise his voice or anything, but that tone.

Oh, that _tone_.

It was enough to make Sherlock go pale and quiet in a heartbeat. Suddenly, he wasn’t at the crime scene anymore. No; he was back in the kitchen, the night before playing so vividly in his mind. For once, he wished he didn’t have such an incredible memory.

 _John was drunk, so_ , so _drunk. The anger in his eyes was_ so _real._

All he could do was reminisce on the previous night. He can’t be sure how long he stood there – a few minutes maybe – with Lestrade’s concerned eyes flickering all over his face, Anderson – surprisingly – had a worried look on his face. Sherlock quickly shook his head, and said to John in a shaky voice, “Um, I’ll be home s-soon.” Without waiting for a reply, he hung up hurriedly, turning his attention to Lestrade and his worried expression. Sherlock knew he had lost himself a bit for a few minutes, but he spoke as though nothing had just transpired. “Call his wife, and if she has chipped red nail polish, arrest her. It’s so obvious, Greg. Call me when you have something remotely interesting.”

Lestrade was shocked by two things: One, Sherlock remembered his name (that in itself is remarkable), and two: he’d never heard Sherlock chastise him so calmly and lacking the earlier venom it’s always carried. Lestrade simply shook his head, and watched as Sherlock ran off from the crime scene.

 

+++++

 

            When Sherlock entered the flat, he really wanted to be left alone. For once in his life, he just wanted a few precious moments of quiet from the deafening noise of today. Having a brain that works constantly on 60mph can really drain a person sometimes, even someone like Sherlock Holmes.

            As he walked – more like dragged – himself through the door to the flat, he was greeted by a rare sight. John stood there by the entrance of the kitchen, dressed in a ridiculously nice suit (when did he buy _that_?), freshly shaven, showered, and looking down-right _gorgeous_. He gave Sherlock one of his huge, winning smiles, and said sweetly, “Don’t relax just yet; we’re going out. So, go on and get your best suit on.”

            Sherlock stood there for a bit, dumbstruck. He cocked his head to the side as he shamelessly checked John out from bottom to top. Obviously, it’s some place ridiculously expensive (not that he was complaining) for John to get _this_ done up (they’ve been married for almost 2 years – known each other even longer – and he’s never seen John in such impressive attire), but it’s not anyone’s anniversary or birthday so what in the hell –

            _Oh,_ Sherlock realized solemnly, _it’s an apology._

“John,” he spoke softly, “You really don’t have to do this. I told you I forgive you already.”

            John’s huge grin faltered just a bit, but he held the expression still. “I can’t take my husband out on a date without being accused of doing it only as an apology? Don’t you know me better than that Sherlock? I told you,” he walked over to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his neck, looking up at him. “I just wanna take you out tonight,” His eyes started to get watery, tears threatening to fall. “Please?”

Sherlock knew John was just doing what he felt he should do to apologize; he shouldn’t hinder him from that. So he smiled and simply said, “Okay.”

 

+++++

 

They ended up that night at a beautiful restaurant.

“Tell me you’re actually going to eat.” John said, as he pulled out Sherlock’s chair for him and then settled himself into his own. John had been a complete gentleman on the way to the restaurant: opening doors, pulling out chairs, and the like.

“No promises.” Sherlock replied with a wink.

They sat down in their booth, and almost immediately they had a waiter approach their table. He looked about Sherlock’s age; had long black hair pulled into a ponytail, tanned skin (from abroad then), bright green eyes, and absolutely gay.

“Here are your menus,” Accent, so abroad from America then. “Oh,” He purred once he caught eye of Sherlock, his voice suddenly dropping an octave. “I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your name?” _Oh,_ Sherlock thought while trying to stifle a laugh, _this is actually hilarious. The poor man is flirting with me._

So, Sherlock decided to do what he does best.

Deduce.

And by God, did he shred the poor man apart and into thousands of diminutive pieces. “— and maybe that’s why your sister never calls anymore. That, and the fact that she disapproves of your homosexuality.”

The waiter simply stood there with watery eyes as laid bare in front of these two complete strangers. “Um, I’ll send someone e-else over to help you out.” Then, he quickly scurried away with whatever courage he maybe had left.

            Once the waiter was out of ear-shot, Sherlock started to laugh. “Oh God,” he chuckled. “Can you believe –” He cut himself off once he saw the death glare John was sending his way. “What?” He asked, genuinely confused.

            He saw John clench his teeth once – no twice – before he spoke up. “‘What’? You’re really asking me, _‘what’_?” Sherlock could see John wrap his hands into fists on the table.

Once more, Sherlock had that image of a drunken John – he quickly dismissed the memory and spoke instead. “Seriously, John, you know I _loathe_ having to repeat myself. Why are you so – _Oh_ , you’re upset about the _deducing_? You can’t possibly be serious right now. Even someone with an intellect like yours should–” John slammed one of his fists down onto the table (making some of the cutlery bounce violently in the process), face hardened into his “ready for battle” expression.

Sherlock immediately shut up as John glowered at him, fists still clenched painfully on the table.

They got a new waiter and didn’t speak to each other the rest of the night.

 

+++++

 

            Once they got home that night (after a dreadfully intense cab ride home. John hadn’t even _looked_ in Sherlock’s direction), John bounded up the steps, leaving Sherlock to trail behind mutely. When Sherlock finally shut the door behind him (preparing for the worst), all hell broke loose.

            All of John’s quiet energy was now a booming supernova, and not even Sherlock Holmes could handle this.

            “Tonight,” John spoke softly at first. “Was the **worst night I’ve had in years! You test my fucking patience, Sherlock Holmes! How I’ve lasted these years with you, I’ll never know but this stops now!** ” He bellowed so loud that Sherlock was worried he was going to wake Mrs. Hudson, had she not been regular about taking her herbal soothers.

Sherlock has set the dragon free, so he shouldn’t be surprised that he has put himself into the line of fire by doing so. John grabbed the closest thing to him (a cup full of now cold tea) and chucked it across the room right at Sherlock’s yellow smiley face ( _How ironic,_ Sherlock thought), and it shattered, splattering pieces of mug and tea over the couch.

            John didn’t stop there, oh no, there was no stopping him now. He stalked over to Sherlock and slammed him (hard) into the now closed door.

When you’re so used to seeing an Army veteran in jumpers, and envisioning him as a cute and cuddly creature, that’s when you’ve really made a mistake; never underestimate John Watson’s power. He really is like a beast, and Sherlock unfortunately just knows all the little buttons to push to let him out of his cage, even by accident.

Neither of them knew what was coming next; Sherlock was blinded by fear (so deducing was out of the question), and John was blinded by rage (so reason was out of the question). Now that they both were running on adrenaline and fear, they didn’t think with logic and reason anymore.

John thought with his hands, and Sherlock just didn’t think at all.

It’s ugly. Nasty.

It shouldn’t happen at all, but it happens anyway.

John pulls his hand back and –

**WHAM!**

Sherlock is slapped so hard it splits his lip, and he could have sworn he saw, – not just stars – but the whole damn universe pass before his eyes.

 

+++++

 

Sherlock wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache, so he simply pops some medicine and grabs his violin, losing himself in every beat and rhythm. _Staccato_ , _allegro_ , _crescendo,_ he feels these things. He feels the music, and it keeps him grounded in the here and now rather than closing himself into his mind like he did the first time.

He’s gone through drugs (solved by murders and morgues), the loss of his parents (not like he knew them much anyhow), and his insufferable brother (solution still pending), but he’s always known how to handle each situation in his own twisted way.

He doesn’t know what to do with John; He just doesn’t at all, and that scares the shit out of him. He’s not used to not knowing what to do. He can’t leave, that’s not an option; John is a light – a bright, burning ball of matter, plasma and fire, and Sherlock knows that his star has just collapsed around him. It’s a black hole now, and he’s slowly but surely getting sucked in.  

But man, what a way to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cops theme song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPp4qb-phrA  
> Thanks so much for reading! Comments, kudos, and bookmarks are appreciated!!!! :)


	3. Panic Attacks and Good Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a loooooooong time, but I am back! So sorry for the wait! I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations! Not beta'd, so all mistakes are my fault :) enjoy!

_ Six Months Later – The Present _

 

“Um, John?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, as he turned his attention from the on goings of the outside world from his window and to John. John had been in one of his moods for a few days after returning home from the clinic one night, and Sherlock was expecting the rage that usually followed, but John simply ignored him, really. He hadn’t looked in Sherlock’s direction, let alone spoke to him, so Sherlock was beginning to get worried. He’d tried everything that normally put John into a better mood (rubbing his feet, making him tea, and a copious amount of sex), but to no avail.

 John made a noncommittal noise, so Sherlock took that as permission to speak. “Well, I need to go to the morgue today; Molly has something for me.”

Nowadays, Sherlock sadly has to ask John for permission to well, go anywhere other than the bathroom to piss. It’s infuriating, and annoying, and just all around driving him mad, but he’d rather endure that than to endure John’s rage. John kept his eyes on the telly, but spoke, “If it’s not for a case than no, Sherl.” Sad to say, it wasn’t for a case, but John doesn’t have to know that.

“Yes, it is for a case, actually,” John raised his eyebrows at him but stayed silent, opting to keep his attention on the telly. “The one about the twins, to be precise.” He winced internally; he has been having a hard time lying to John because the consequences are now more than before. Hopefully, he would buy this lie just this once.

He finally looked at Sherlock and cocked his head. “The twins,” He inquired. He took a pause, and then spoke again, “I thought you solved that case already.” _Oh no, please just this one day be too dumb to figure this out_ , Sherlock thought. Sherlock shook his head and opened his mouth to disagree, but John interrupted him, “Yeah, actually, we _both_ solved it. If I remember correctly, it got solved last week. How else would I have got this scar?” He pointed to the small hook-shaped scar on his temple. Then, like a light bulb went off in his head, John’s eyes lit up and his mouth parted in an “O” shape.

This was a look that said “I’ve figured out that you’re lying to me, and I will make sure you know not to do it again”. Sherlock took a deep breath and clasped his shaking hands together in front of him; with his chin held high and feet planted securely on the ground, he waited for the punishment…

…that never came.

John simply shook his head and turned back to the telly. He took a long pull from his tea and said quietly, “Go ahead and go. Be back by seven.” Sherlock gaped at him in utter shock. Something is _definitely_ wrong if John doesn’t even acknowledge Sherlock’s fib. This is some type of trick, it just has to be! _He must be testing me_ , he thought, _right?_

“Are you sure about that? I don’t have to go,” he sighed inwardly because in reality, he really _did_ have to go, but he can’t tell John that. “I can stay.” John simply shook his head, not uttering another word as Sherlock silently slipped out the door.

 

+++++

 

Sherlock returned to an empty flat later that evening. He thanked whatever God was up there that he did because he had returned home two hours past when John had told him to arrive. This would give him time to acclimatize himself to whatever condition he would find John in once the army doctor got home. He’s only late because he needed to stop at more than just the morgue on a short notice; he needed a new scarf (in this lovely shade of eggplant), for one, and for two, he was nice enough to stop for milk (that took up so much time because there were so many options, he became stumped but settled on two percent).

He threw his coat over his chair and went to put the milk away. After, he put on the kettle — in case John would like tea once he got home. He plopped onto his chair and began to clean his violin. This was something he did every once in a while when he can’t find anything else to do. It doesn’t bore him, and — surprisingly, even to himself — it engages him almost as much as a clever serial killer does. He goes to check his phone and it isn’t surprising for him to find it to be dead. _Oh well, in for a penny_ , he thought. He grabbed his charger (which he keeps smashed in between the cushion and arm of his chair), and plugged it in.

A few minutes later, it started vibrating wildly; there had to have been at least 20 text messages. It startled Sherlock out of his hypnotic state that he normally gets when cleaning Billy (yes, the violin’s name is Billy). He grabbed up his phone just as he heard the front door downstairs open and slam shut. He scrolled through the missed messages, and he felt his throat close up as his eyes began to water.

He was in _so_ much trouble.

Each text was from John, and they got increasingly more erratic and worried as he scrolled through the texts and got to the most recent one that read:

 

_When you get home, I swear. – JW_

_9:15pm_

 

Yeah, he was dead. Right at that moment, John busted through the door, cheeks red from the biting cold outside. He looked at Sherlock for a few moments, and then proceeded to take his coat and gloves off. He turned to face Sherlock again, fist balled at his sides, as he tried to control his breathing.

It was deathly silent, and Sherlock wanted to be anywhere else but here with tears in his eyes and a fuming John only a few feet away. He gulped and wiped at his eyes fiercely; John wasn’t going to get the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock crying like this.

Finally John spoke, but it was in the tone that was supposed to in some form resemble calmness, but demonstrated the complete opposite. “It was ten minutes past seven, so I went to the morgue to get you, but Molly said you had just left. I come home, and you’re not here, like you were supposed to be. So, I text you and I get no _reply_ ,” his voice went up a pitch (something that happens when he’s close to yelling). He cleared his voice and continued, “I didn’t know _where_ you could have disappeared to and you wouldn’t answer your phone, so I spent these past _two hours looking for you!_ ” He eventually bellowed.

After all this time, his temper still caused Sherlock to cower just a bit.

John ran his hand down his face, and stomped his way into the kitchen. “You can’t just _fucking —”_ He dropped his mug with a loud clatter in the sink and hastily picked it up, fingers wavering from the intensity of his anger and worry toward Sherlock.

Sherlock sat still in the living room, eyes cast down toward the floor, not even daring himself to look at John. “My phone was dead.” He practically whispered.

John gave him a pointed look (not that he could see). “Dead phone or not, you should have been home on _time_.” He replied through clenched teeth. His frame was shaking and he just wanted to hit something, anything.

_Anyone_.

Sherlock could hear John making his way over to his chair — having abandoned tea making — and he braced himself for what would happen. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back from the anticipation of what was going to happen. Eyes still downcast, he felt as John knelt right in front of him. He tried to control his breathing as best as possible; you can’t let the beast smell your fear because once he does, he’s blood thirsty.

“You are an ungrateful cock, and you are so lucky that I am still here putting up with your shit. One more false move Sherlock Holmes, and I swear,” Sherlock heard John take a breath before he continued. “You will come home one day, and I won’t be here. I promise you that.” And with those parting words, he stood back up and went into their bedroom, slamming the door.

Sherlock could feel it in his chest; that rising panic, the feeling that something is so terribly wrong, and he needs to go and run some place. He tried to swallow around the lump in his throat and get a hold on his breathing. John had _never_ threatened to leave, and Sherlock Holmes will be damned if he lets that happen because if John leaves, Sherlock will truly live and be alone for the rest of his life. His eyes started to sting, and he felt nauseous and fretful.

He was having a panic attack.

He braced his hands on the arms of his chair and tried to regulate his breathing, but he simply couldn’t.

_John can’t leave,_ he thought to himself. _No, John, John, John, my John…_

Sherlock didn’t know how long he sat there, gripping violently to the sides of his chair before he felt a callused hand rubbed soothingly in his curls. He soon realized that those hands belonged to John, and he immediately felt the tears in his eyes spill down his crimson cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he heard John whisper as he carted his hand through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock couldn’t believe his ears. John is sorry? Why in the hell is John sorry? It’s Sherlock’s fault, it always is. He should be the one apologizing for crying out loud!

He shook his head, wishing he could form words around the lump in his throat to express his discrepancy with John’s statement, but opted to continue shaking his head fervently.

“Yes, Sherlock,” John spoke so solemnly that Sherlock’s guilt just worsened. “I shouldn’t have said an awful thing like that.”

Sherlock felt that this just wasn’t right; John has no reason to apologize when he’s at fault here. “No,” He managed to choke out. “It’s my fault.”

Now it was John’s turn to shake his head violently. “Stop it,” he pulled a wobbly Sherlock to his feet. “Come on, off to bed.” They walked to the bedroom as Sherlock’s sobs became less and less ferocious, and John laid Sherlock down on the bed while he went looking for some pajamas for Sherlock. John knows he’s been abusive, and he knows he’s fucked up an already fragile human being. He feels sick with himself, but he has no control once the beast in him comes out. “Here you go, Sherl.” He said as he passed Sherlock his pajamas.

He quickly dressed himself, and by the time he was done, Sherlock was already dressed and under the duvet. He climbed in beside his husband, and wrapped his arms around him, spooning him. Before he could say goodnight, Sherlock had flopped over and gave John a look; this wasn’t just any look.

This look was the look Sherlock only gives John when he feels repentant for whatever he’d done to upset him and wanted to repay him with a sexual favor. John simply shook his head and turned his back to him. Sherlock felt a stab in his chest; John only ever refuses Sherlock’s advances when he’s _extremely_ pissed at him.

“No, John, let me,” He said hurriedly, trying to ignore the stab of abandonment he felt ( _when the hell did that begin?_ he thought) from the rejection. John muttered a sleepy, “No, m’tired” and snuggled into his pillow more.

Sherlock bit his lip but rolled over, too. Even when he tries to do something right, he gets it wrong.

Fine. If he’s going to be treated this way regardless of what he does, he simply shouldn’t give a fuck anymore.

So, he won’t.

With those final thoughts, instead of sleeping, he dove into his Mind Palace, planning for tomorrow.

 

+++++

 

When Sherlock awoke that morning, he was alone. It wasn’t a work day, so John must have went to the store. Or left for good.

_One more false move Sherlock Holmes, and I swear, you will come home one day, and I won’t be here. I promise you that._

Maybe that was for the best. He knew what he had to do. Sure, it was reckless, and all he’d be doing is provoking John but it needed to be done. Sherlock has spent his whole life being disobedient: at seven, when Mommy would tell him not to go digging in the Garden out back for more worms, he’d come back with more worms. And some spiders. When a pudgy, stuffy faced, 12-year-old Mycroft told Sherlock to keep his nose out of his room, Sherlock kept his nose out. Mycroft came home one day after school to find _many_ different noses all over his bed. Sherlock hid while his brother stomped around the house, cursing his name.

So, Sherlock is very good at disobedience.

Somehow, John Watson has turned him into some sort of submissive bitch, rolling over and fetching whenever John commands him to. He’s put up with this for far too long, so today will be dedicated to doing the complete opposite. He gets out of bed, favoring the stretching in his limbs and back. As he stands, he’s reminded in the back of his mind that he should be making the bed up behind himself. All these years after the military, and John still wants to be able to bounce a damn quarter off the bed. Sherlock eyes the rumpled mess of sheets and pillows.

And simply walks away.

Snatching his red dressing gown off a hook on the back of his door, he makes his way to the kitchen. He immediately goes into the fully stocked fridge (John makes sure the fridge is stocked, so Sherlock doesn’t have an excuse not to eat), and then decides that he won’t eat this morning. Instead, he goes over to one of the cupboards, and after pushing some things around on the very top shelf (to make sure John couldn’t get to it), finds a sealed container. John told him weeks ago to throw those moldy bananas out, but he didn’t have the heart to do it, so he stashed them in the highest shelf possible.

He smirks to himself; _I suppose I’ll be finishing up this experiment today._

He places the container onto the counter to deal with later.

He then goes into the bathroom. Normally after eating, John wants him to shower and get dressed for the day. Eh, he’ll just skip that today, too. He goes back to his bananas, but before he can open it, he feels something build up in his chest. At first, he blows it off as just acid reflux, or maybe indigestion. But no, it’s not something that’s actually physical.

He can feel a lump building in his throat, his palms are getting sweaty, and he’s starting to breathe hard. He leaves the Bananas alone, and paces the living room instead. There’s this nagging feeling, this huge sense of just _wrongwrongwrong_ pulsing in his head. He tugs and tugs and tugs at his hair, hoping for some release of tension. He keeps pacing, and the lump in his throat seems to double in size.

He comes to the realization that he’s scared. He is honest to God scared.

_I didn’t fix up the bed, I didn’t eat or get dresssed, and now I’m planning on working on an experiment that he specifically told me throw out weeks ago. Wrongwrongwrong. John is going to be so upset….UpsetJohn equals Badbadbad.._

He’s pulled out his thoughts once he hears the front door slam shut.

Fuck, he’s home.

Sherlock has just enough time to throw himself into an absolute panic before the door to their flat opens.

John is looking exceptionally handsome today. He’s wearing that blue jumper that brings out his eyes, those dark jeans that fit him well, and some simple shoes. Altogether, he looks great and smiling with that _wonderful_ smile of his. He’s carrying a few bags — _as if the goddamn fridge isn’t full_ enough — but Sherlock has other things on his mind, like how royally he’s fucked up.

John’s smile slowly fades as he takes in the stricken expression on Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock? What’s the problem?” John’s eyes scan the room; ah, always the soldier.

Sherlock bites his lip but doesn’t say anything until John drops the bags and rushes towards him and starts patting him down, checking for injury. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock chokes out. “I-I didn’t m-mean to. I’ll do i-it, I will, I p-promise. D-d-don---” And that’s when Sherlock Holmes bursts out crying, more like weeping, into John’s shoulder.

John pushes him back from his shoulder; just enough to get a good look at his face. “What’d you do Sherlock?”

He can’t look John in the eye, and tell him how bad he’s been. He just can’t, so he keeps his eyes closed as he speaks. “I didn’t m-make the b-bed, I d-didn’t get dressed. I didn’t even t-throw away th-those bana-nanas. I’m s-s-sorry!”

“Sherlock, look at me.” A direct order, Sherlock can’t ignore that. He slowly peeled his eyes open, knowing he’d find stormy blue eyes. Instead, John his giving him a weak smile. “Let’s get you sitting down and relaxed then we’ll talk, love.” The pet name throws Sherlock for a loop/ He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve John sitting him down gently in his chair, kissing his forehead before he makes his way to the kitchen to make _Sherlock_ his favorite tea. He doesn’t deserve the loving look John sends him when he hands it to him. He doesn’t deserve that small smile, or how his foot brushes up against John’s once he sits down. “Alright, talk.” John says politely, and Sherlock let’s up word vomit detailing everything that’s happened in the last hour. At the end of it all, John chuckles. _He actually fucking chuckles_ as though Sherlock just told a cute funny story.

“J-John?” No matter how nice of a response he’s getting from John, Sherlock is still cautious.

“Don’t worry about it, Sherlock. No harm done.” Sherlock continues to sit there in disbelief. “I still love you.” John gets up and kisses him.

That’s when Sherlock wakes up. He feels sick; even in his dreams, it feels wrong for John to express that kind of love toward him when Sherlock has been unsavory as of late. His back pops with every stretch as he stands, grabbing his blue dressing gown. John isn’t there. He doesn’t even have to think about it; he makes the bed, eats, throws out the bananas, and gets dressed. John comes home and doesn’t even say hello, let alone “I love you”.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Ya'll probably hate me lol

I am so so so sorry, with a capital "S" that I haven't posted anything new. Life caught up with me. 

Good news though, I am in the process of writing some new chapters, and I am editing the previous chapters because my writing style is so much different than it was when I started this years ago. So, prepare for some new content. Also, anybody out there who is also a fan of Supernatural, I am in the process of writing a Spn fic that, yes, it revolves around domestic violence, but it's much darker than this domestic violence Sherlock story, and when I say Darker, I mean DARKER. So viewer discretion is advised.  
I don't have a particular time when I'll be posting that new story because I don't want to do to it how I did this story: end up leaving my audience with no new chapters for forever. So, this story will only be posted either

a) when it's completely finished and I can post it in it's entirety, or

b)When it's close to finish and you guys have a lot to chew on.

I am full of ideas and plots, so don't be surprised if I begin to post some drabbles or little small plot bunnies. Just to keep you guys entertained until I'm back with my meatier stories.

And no, I haven't forgotten about "Broken Toy Soldier". That one is a work in progress as well, and dammit, I might need to go back and revise that one as well lol Like I said, I am so much different than I was a few years back when it was originally posted. 

Thanks for your guy's patience with me; every comment and kudos I get in my email, so I read it and I am just here to let you guys know I haven't forgotten about you.

Until next time, peace!


End file.
